King of Cups (Stormcloud Academy 2)

Ten days before the start of classes, I found myself antsy. Students were already trickling in, mostly second and third-years trying to get the lay of the land before the term officially began. I watched them all from the fourth-floor window of Zephyr’s suite.

They came in Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and spacious stretch limos. Their hair was sun-bleached and their skin bronzed after summers of leisure. I could only imagine where they’d spent their breaks: Caribbean isles, Mediterranean yachts, villas on Lake Como, chalets in Sochi. It struck me anew that my classmates were the children not just of privilege but of extraterrestrial wealth.

What was I doing in this rarified air? My father was successful but not a billionaire. Though he couldn’t shower me with couture clothes and lavish vacations, he gave me all the love a child could want. He went to Stormcloud Academy once upon a time but never saw fit to tell me. The funds to place me in this school were shrouded in mystery, an endowment arranged without my knowledge. Now I sat at the top of its rigid hierarchy. Within the perimeter walls of Stormcloud, I was a protected mistress of the ancient order of Kings. The children of politicians, oligarchs, and lords—and they’d cleared a path to power for me.

Even now, that seemed insane, like something from a gothic romance—the provincial girl who became a queen.

Nevertheless, a flutter began inside my chest as the school year approached. It grew into an earthquake of anticipation.

I turned to Theo, my partner in crime—or, rather, my partner in avenging a crime. It was a relief to have him back. It kept me sane, having a person to reassure me I wasn’t paranoid about Gail’s death. We swapped theories and clues.

“Try to remember,” he pressed me that afternoon. “When was the last time either of us saw her?”

I puzzled it out. It must have been that afternoon—the last of final exams. I’d gone back to her room to get dolled up for the end-of-term bash. Then I’d left her before sunset to find Zephyr.

“Didn’t you see her during the party?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I muttered, trying to remember. “We were gonna steer clear of each other until it was time to meet at Amelia’s office. Do you remember seeing her?”

He thought hard, then shook his head. “No good. . . . I can’t for the life of me remember seeing her that night.”

“That begs the question, then: what if she didn’t leave her room after I last saw her? I mean, Gail wasn’t much of a party girl. What if she stayed hidden until it was time for us to meet?”

“Someone would have needed to break into her room—”

“Yeah, but there was no forced entry.”

“So either the killer had a key . . . or she knew them.”

We locked eyes. Every one of my talks with Theo ended in this unnerving place, with the sinking suspicion that whoever did this was someone we all knew. Just as frightening was that since I was attacked on the same night Gail was killed, this person could still be looking for me. . . .

We had three things in common, Gail and I. Both of our fathers went to Stormcloud. Both of our fathers died in mysterious accidents. And both of us had been digging through the Stormcloud archives in secret. One or several of these commonalities had made us targets. The only thing that separated her fate and mine was that I had Zephyr and Theo to defend me.

After many months apart, it was nice to reconnect with Theo, but these conversations did nothing for my high-headed anxiety. They stirred primal feelings inside me. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wanted nothing more than to give myself to Theo Brant, to open myself physically and spiritually to his strong, attendant hands and lips. I ached for him to make me a woman. The one time we’d kissed in front of the school was, in many ways, the purest rush of passion I’d ever felt. I could still conjure the sensation of his tongue slipping past my lips and smell the cypress shampoo that perfumed his golden locks.

No matter how dire and bleak the topics we discussed, I could not help but feel an agonizing desire when I gazed into his hypnotic eyes. I nearly gasped whenever he bit his lower lip, puzzling out one of our hypotheticals.

It probably didn’t help that I hadn’t been touched in months and was reaching a seismic level of horniness.

That afternoon ten days before classes was no different. As I often did after having lunch with Theo, I rushed to my borrowed suite, dodging incoming students with their Yves Saint-Laurent rolling bags and Versace backpacks. Then I latched the door, pulled the chain, and ran a warm bath in the footed marble tub.

More and more, I was forgoing showers in favor of slow, luxurious baths—with a decent amount of citrus-scented oil and a little Lana Del Rey playing on the speaker to cover up my, shall we say, appreciative noises. It’s debatable how clean these baths made me, but they relieved some of my tension.

I slid gently into my soothing tub, my dress and undergarments cast aside as soon as I locked the door. No sooner had my back pressed against the slanted stone than my hands traced their way up my belly and ribs. My aching breasts responded to the pressure of my palms, and the moment I pinched my hard, wine-red nipples, the passion within me began boiling over. This was going to be fast, I knew. My lunch with Theo had primed me for immediate release.

My left hand was under the water a second later, spreading myself and teasing my swelling clit.

But I was interrupted in my self-pleasure by the sound of the suite’s door latch clicking open and the security chain going taut.

Someone was coming in. I suspected who it was, and the fortuitous possibility sent a shot of adrenaline through my veins. I lifted myself from the bath and wrapped a Turkish cotton towel around my dripping body.

No sooner had I returned to the bedroom than I faced shadows dancing behind the ajar door. A beat later, there was a snapping sound, then the glint of a switchblade appeared in the crack. My breath caught in my throat. The blade found the chain and slowly lifted it from the door catch.

I should have shouted or at least retrieved my clothes. For all I knew, this could have been another assassin sent from my unseen enemies, infiltrating the room to cut my throat—or worse. But I couldn’t move. Something froze me in place, and my throat closed, not daring to let out even a whimper.

I stood paralyzed in terror as that blade lifted the chain from its clasp.

The door swung open.